Everything I know is everything I’ve always known:
Shadows are only shadows to those
who’ve seen stars, who aren’t
locked away in caves, tied with chains, caught behind bars.
But even stars are not necessarily what they are
today, but now only light from white dwarfs
yesterday, because nothing
red or hot can survive this inflation, this
long ago explosion and dilation.
I could never drink enough to warm this
mistimed chill, could not fill
consistent malicious spiritlessness, and still
our universe, everything, once tight with absence, an
impossibly dense vastness, all knowledge, the very
last sense, will burn
off into a nothing
to which we’ll inexorably return, and
meanwhile, I will go about losing the things to say in
trying to find the ways to say them, and
will go about forgetting the thing I am in trying to
remember the ways I was then.
Even when everything is covered in white, and
up is down, and left is right, and
being over is through, I won’t
ever feel right when
a thing you have lost, a
part of yourself
once had, now
among the inscrutable white of
pages, notes, memories
forgotten, though nearly captured, only
surrounded by interminable
whatever you do, don’t forget:
I can wrap my jaw
spazzed-out little neck.
I am Kaiya the crazy koo of
come to git
all up in your shit.
one of us is always feet on the
ground, the other unbound
by time and space, or by
rational thought, non-tractional, caught
between what is and what could never be
the times we whisper, or sing to the
stars, in the back seat of cars
gliding, abiding, above
the earth, flying
refusing to lose the feeling, undying
you can check the transcript—
you can roll back the tape—
we have never danced, only flew
or fought, with no time to
stop, ready to
chase, to face
the deathless answer now
Recently, I went to Israel and performed live a piece I wrote for the MOVING WORDS project for ARTS By The People. Aside from the trip being fantastic for all kinds of personal reasons, I was honored to have the opportunity to debut the animation and perform it live at the 2017 Animix Festival in Tel Aviv.
I don’t think I’ve posted anything on Mother’s Day since my mom died. I don’t feel like verifying this fact, even though I easily could. What I do know is that in the past I’ve felt bitter about this day. I’ve felt bitter about it for reasons that go beyond my mother no longer being here. And maybe the fact that I felt it necessary and good to post something today had something to do with healing. Maybe the fact that I went ahead and took out her letters and her photographs today, scanned some of them in, put some words to page — something “new” — maybe this all has something to do with healing.
If you have read THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION please go to Amazon or Goodreads and review it. It’s Friday afternoon, after all. What better thing to do?!?
I’m not gonna lie, my inspire meter has been resting on “E” for the past few months. My dog brain has been in need of dem bones. Well, last week, I found a big bag of ’em in the form of the distinctly venerable (yet delightfully irreverent) journal, Atticus Review. I’m happy and excited to tell y’all that I’ll be the new Editor-in-Chief of that exceptional wardrobe of words, and it’s got my inspire meter back on the big “F” where it belongs. (#notaeuphemism)
This is the Texas Book Tour for This Is Not a Confession. June 4th through June 7th. Three cities. 450 Miles. The first stop was Austin at Book People. The only thing that could've made this better for me is if somehow Willie Nelson's name could've been on the marquee...